


Wick-craft

by okapi



Series: Spooky & Kooky (the Halloween fics) [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Candle Shop AU, Candles, Fluff and Crack, Halloween, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Puns & Word Play, Witches, the Horror of Retail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12232107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: One Hallowe'en, a tall, dark, handsome warlock walks into John's candle shop, Wax 'N' Lachrymose.Candle Shop AU. Fluff. Crack. Post-Reichenbach Johnlock reunion.





	Wick-craft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SCFrankles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/gifts).



> My favourite month of the year is finally here! If you don't like Hallowe'en fics, it might be best to unsubscribe until November because Spooky & Kooky (and maybe a bit kinky) will be on offer for the next few weeks.
> 
> For [SCFrankles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles), who will probably empathise with John's initial plight. Beta'ed by the one-and-only [Small_Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit). And inspired by word-crumbs from the muse-tickling [sans_patronymic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic). 
> 
> John is quoting the 1958 song "Witch Doctor" by David Seville.

“…well, ma’am you called the Witch Doctor and I told you what to do,” said John, trying valiantly to keep the impatience out of his voice.

The phone was cradled between his ear and shoulder. He slammed the till drawer closed with his hip, but before he could offer the witch her change and mouth a ‘Happy Hallowe’en,’ a second witch jumped the queue.

“Do you have these in six inches?” she squawked, waving a long, black candle in John’s face and ignoring the murderous glances and mumbled incantations of the file of witches waiting behind her.

“Just a moment, please” said John, pointing to the receiver. Then he listened and frowned. “Well, _walla walla bing bang_ to you, too,” he replied testily and hung up the phone.

Skirting the interloper, John handed the first witch her change and bag and said wearily,

“Thank you very much, and please do return to Wax ‘N’ Lachrymose for all your wick-craft needs.”

Then, much to the dismay of the queue, John turned his attention the rude witch, who bleated,

“Twenty-four. Six-inch Black Mass candles.”

“Oh, yeah. Um, I doubt I have any more, but I suppose I can check in the back,” said John.

“But my class of Wee Little Devils are celebrating their first Black Mass in less than three hours!” the witch cried. “And then there’s a Minions recital!”

John sighed. “Lack of preparation on your part, ma’am, does not constitute an emergency on my part.”

She gave him a hard stare. “May I speak to the manager, uh,” she eyed his name badge, “Witch Doctor John?”

“You’re looking at him, but I do,” John spun ‘round and scanned the shelves behind him, “have a dozen foot-long ones.” He plucked a box from one of the many stacks of boxes. “A quick halving spell or a sharp knife and you’ve got twenty-four.”

“Perfect!” she cried. She grabbed the box from John’s hands, threw some money on the counter, then hurried out the door, shouting “Oh, go fall off your broomstick!” at a witch who was giving her the Evil Eye.

John forced a smile. “Next.”

A witch approached the counter.

“How can I help you?” asked John.

“I’m, uh, well, things are really heavy at work. I’m stressed all the time.”

John pointed to a display in the far corner of the shop.

“Try one from the Can’t Be Burnt at Both Ends line.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Next.”

“I want my money back. This Lyrical Wax doesn’t work.”

“Hmm.” John studied the jar. “It might be a case of wax wroth, but I’d have to test a sample to be certain. What kind of verse are you writing?”

“It’s a sonnet. About oranges.”

John stared, then he popped the register open and handed the witch her money.

“Next.”

The phone rang.

“Wax ‘N’ Lachrymose. Thank you for voting us a Mage’s Fav three years in a row! This is Witch Doctor John.”  

The chime on the front door laughed maniacally as John motioned for the next witch in the queue to set her basket of Roman candles on the counter. John listened to the voice on the phone as he rang up the purchases. Then he looked up.

A tall, dark, handsome, handsome— _sweet Beelzebub_ —handsome warlock whom John had never seen, except, perhaps, in lurid fantasy, had just wandered into the shop, _his_ shop, his little candle shop!

Oh, it was Hallowe’en!  

“Excuse me? Hello?” piped the tinny voice in the phone.

John shook his head and said quickly, “Yes, yes we have Coven of the Dead tapers in unscented, freshly-interred, and, uh,” he gave the witch her bag and her change and a wink, “Oh, I’m sorry. I am afraid I just sold my last ‘century-old-bones-and-ash.’ Yes, I know they’re very popular this time of year.”

John hung up the phone and called, “Next.”

And John wished he could remember a spell, well, any spell, but especially one that would clear the shop so that he could have just one moment alone with the warlock, he of the soft, dark curls and the quicksilver eyes and the cut-glass cheekbones and that amazing coat, he who was currently waltzing slowly and gracefully around the shop, eyeing this, examining that, and smelling the other and, at least twice, casting a glance of undisguised curiosity John’s way.

The warlock reminded John of a bee in a garden, flitting from blossom to blossom in search of the most ambrosial nectar. Or maybe he was a flame to John’s moth.

Oh, sod the metaphors. You only live seven times.

John raised both arms and announced, “Witches and warlocks, spell-casters, one and all, a ghost and ghoulie special! For the next five minutes, everything is a quid. Drop your money in this cauldron, on your black cat’s honour, and walk out with your wares. Thank you and have a great day from everyone, that’d be me, at Wax ‘N’ Lachrymose. And remember a Tallowe’en is a Sallowe’en, so make sure your spell’s running on nothing less than 100% cruelty-free beeswax!”

John tore off his apron and eased ‘round the counter. He smiled as he approached the warlock.

The warlock returned the smile, and John felt a spark in his heart as novel as it was ardent.

The warlock sniffed a trio of pear-shaped, aubergine-coloured candles and grimaced.

“Not a disciple of the Goddess of the Cloven Hoof, I see,” said John. “To be honest, I find her a bit ruminant-tary myself.”

The warlock’s smile widened into a grin, and he chuckled.

John’s spark fanned into glow.

Oh, he liked puns, did he, Mister Turned-up Collar? Well, he’d come to the right chandler.

They strolled ‘round the shop together, John following close behind the warlock, making suggestions.

“A very nice Blood-Stained Altar of Baal kit?”

The warlock shook his head.

“Um. Cult of Kali wick’d sticks?”

The warlock shook his head.

“Let’s see. No, not ‘DIY Bell, Book, and Candling.’ Forgive me, but you seem a bit, well, gorgeous,” John coughed, “I mean, sophisticated for anything in the bougie line. You, uh, new in town?”

“I’m just back from the dead,” said the warlock.

John’s knees buckled at the lovely baritone, then he remembered himself and his jumble of a storeroom and cried, “Oh! Why didn’t you say so? I’ve just got a new shipment of Necro-thorpe’s fancies! I haven’t even had time to put them out, what with the rush.”

“Necro-thorpe fancies?”

“Silly name for tealights, but—"

“No, thank you,” said the warlock, a besotting half-smile tugged at his lips, “but I will take one of these.”

He plucked a long reed from a waist-high basket by the wall.

“Rushlight?” said John. “Yes, sir! Most witches consider them too old-fashioned, but I always say, ‘give me a good rushlight over a poorly dipped—'”

The stranger produced a cigarette lighter.

“Uh, I’m sorry, there’s no smoking in here,” said John.

The warlock lit the rushlight.

“Hey, Mister, you burn it, you buy it!” cried John, suddenly noticing that the two of them were alone in the shop. “And I don’t give credit.” He pointed to the sign on the wall that read,

‘Neither a follower or a snuffer be. Cash only.’

The warlock paid no attention to John, but rather looked ‘round the room with a narrow, searching gaze. He stopped, then strode to the bin of cut-priced broken and damaged items.

“And I’ll take some of these,” he said, retrieving three strands of silver-coloured wire and lighting the tips with the rushlight.

“Oh. Okay. Interesting choice. Moon poppy floss. Not much use for that these days. Most people prefer—”

“And that one over there.”

The warlock crisscrossed the room, moving from the counter to the store window display to snatch a short, thick white candle resting in a wall of iron-worked ivy, then back to the counter. He set the candle down and lit it, too, from the rushlight. The other strands were still smoldering in his hand like a bouquet ablaze.

“Hey, listen, I don’t mean to tell you your business, Mister, but the only spell that you can cast with a rushlight, three strands of Moon Poppy Floss and a Gran Macabre votive from the Secret Sect of Evil would also require mouse-eared scorpion grass, which I don’t stock, which no one stocks—”

“You mean this?”

The warlock held up a tiny drawstring bag.

John stared, then blinked. “That’s impossible—”

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, John.”

“Where have I heard that before? How do you know my name? Oh, the badge.”

The warlock sprinkled the contents of the bag onto the white candle. “What is the only spell that can be cast like this, John?”

John didn’t hesitate.

“A Greco-Roman memory counter-charm. It’s the strongest known anti-amnesiac—”

The warlock nodded once, then bellowed,

“ _Acta est fabula, plaudite!_ ”

WHOOSH!

The shop went dark, so did John’s mind.

A flicker. A flame. A face.

Sherlock!

“Oh, gods!” cried John and flew to Sherlock’s open arms, burying his face in the side of Sherlock’s neck, breathing in his scent, reveling in his warmth. He dented Sherlock’s flesh with his teeth and drew his tongue along Sherlock’s skin, just to be certain this was no dream, no spectre, no spell.

John pulled back, and Sherlock leaned to relight the white candle.

“It worked,” said John.

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, but as I predicted, three years is far too long without you, John.”

John ran a concerned hand along Sherlock’s face, studying it by the warm light. “You’re too thin, too tired. You need a shag and a meal at Angelo’s and a nap, in that order, Doctor’s orders, that is.”

“Those are second and third and fourth on my list, John.”

“What’s the first?”

Sherlock’s expression hardened. “One knot of Moriarty’s web remains. It’s the ugliest.”

“Moran?”

“Yes, and I can’t defeat him without you.” Sherlock’s features softened and he added playfully, “And about a quarter of your inventory.”

John shook his head slowly. “It’s all coming back. I am _actually_ a witch doctor.”

“You’re the bravest doctor the modern witching world has ever known, John Hamish Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. A veteran of Maiwand, Peshawar, and…”

“Barts bloody morgue!” cried John.

Sherlock nodded, then kissed John’s smiling lips.

“You’re extraordinary, Sherlock. To have cast a spell like that, a spell that no one’s cast in a hundred years, for my sake. There’s no warlock alive, or dead, or undead, that can, well…”

John reached for the nearest candle and held it to Sherlock.

Sherlock laughed. “But even I did not anticipate that the only thing impervious to a Faustian memory charm is a penchant for pawky puns.”

“I told you a long time ago, Sherlock: some things are stronger than magic.”

“Indeed.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s forehead and said, “I think business hours are over, John.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

As John drew down the window blinds, Sherlock plucked the pen from behind John’s ear and strode to the front door. He scribbled on the sign.

John caught sight of it before Sherlock pressed it to the glass.

‘SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED— _forever_.’

“Okay, Sherlock. Now, what’s the plan?”

“Well, you’ll probably end up calling it ‘The Empty Bobeche’ or—”

“’It Takes Two to Candela’?”

“Perhaps, but I prefer ‘Light the Darkness,—’”

John grinned. “—Curse a Candle.’”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!


End file.
